


Only Friends

by friendlybomber



Series: Only Friends After All [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: "no homo" - jefferson and madison, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, M/M, Making Out, hardcore making out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5199899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlybomber/pseuds/friendlybomber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There comes a time, a crucial fork in every deep, affectionate relationship, where two friends must confront the plausibility that there may be something more than platonic love and trust between them. </p><p>Thomas Jefferson and James Madison are definitely just friends. Definitely. Making out doesn't change anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Friends

**Author's Note:**

> This fic took an abnormally long time to write because I kept suddenly looking up and realizing that I was writing Founding Fathers slash fanfiction. So, enjoy.

There comes a time, a crucial fork in every deep, affectionate relationship, where two friends must confront the plausibility that there may be something more than platonic love and trust between them. For Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, this crucial moment came after they had been drinking rather heavily to drown the gray hair-inducing stress their government positions were wont to cause.

It was the thought of such an event, perhaps shared telepathically between the two friends, that had inspired them to action. For Thomas, it had been a subject of sheer exhaustion; he was far too tired for his mind to be working properly, and he was far away from his home in Virginia and thus the sweet little thing he used to distract himself from the death of his wife, and James was _there_ , and what the hell, what’s the worst that could happen? Never mind the fact that Jefferson had never been attracted to a man in his entire life. For James, it was nothing more than a passing thought, one to amuse him; he had never been attracted to _anyone_ in his entire life, and he was close with Thomas, and completely intoxicated (not as much so as Thomas, however), and he was always game to try something new.  

They shared no discussion about their independent trains of thought, unaware that they would lead to their mutually assured destruction. Both resolved to simply let it play out as it would. Whatever happened, happened.

The opportunity arose not long after at all. One minute they had been sitting at a comfortable distance from each other, drinking and grumbling and generally having an _okay_ time, and the next, James’s fingers were tangling through Thomas’s bushy black hair, a gesture that had been consistently platonic in past encounters - a calming method when Thomas got _too_ panicked about public speaking or particularly riled up about Hamilton’s goddamn financial plan - but now carried some strange, intimate undertone. Something in his eyes said it was different this time. Something new. An experiment, of sorts.

The familiar gesture was met with the same accepting response as always. Thomas leaned into the touch and rubbed his chin, creating a delicate _scritch-scritch_ sound as his palm rubbed against his beard. Dark bags drooped below his dark eyes, but he watched James intently, something unreadable turning around and around in his mind. Neither of them acted immediately, anticipating whether the other one would initiate the first movement towards something deeper than friendship. 

“Your hair’s getting kinda long,” James murmured, running his hand through the coiled curls of Thomas’s magnificent ‘fro. “Looks good, though.”

"Mm,” Thomas said, wrapping his fingers around James’s wrist. His voice was thick, deeper than usual, if from nothing but the whiskey. “Don’t I always look good?”

James hesitated as he considered answering truthfully – or, well, lying, but flattering his friend to serve his means. Thomas read his mind and winked at him, a gleam in his eye behind the fog of whiskey. In that moment, they both understood; their goals for the night were mutual. It was time to determine where they stood with each other- lovers or friends? They were both intelligent men, coldly, efficiently so, but they were also both drunk men, and tired men, and lonely men, and, hey, if you’re going to experiment, you might as well do it with your best friend.

They snapped out of their shared moment of epiphany, and then Thomas’s hand was sliding up his friend’s arm, resting on his elbow, his bicep, his shoulder, his cheek. A beat, a tiny exhale in the stream of time. Wide eyes. Trembling hands. The last moment to back out. It passed by wasted. They leaned in at the same time, and their lips met softly, tentatively. Both men lurched back instantly as if struck by lightning.

“No,” said Thomas.

“That’s weird,” said James.                                 

They were silent. Then, they caught each other’s eye, and leaned in again, this time more intently. James’s lips were warm and tinted with the bitter taste of alcohol, but the sensation was strangely pleasant. This time, they did not pull away. The world, blurred and rushing from the whiskey, seemed to pause for a second, and all they could hear was the sound of their blood pumping in their ears. James drew back a fraction of an inch, creating a miniscule gap between their faces.

“Your beard is itchy,” he mumbled. When he spoke, his lips brushed against his friend’s. With every syllable, Thomas’s pulse spiked. “And you taste like whiskey.”

“You make it sound like you don’t want to kiss me,” Thomas replied with a sly smile.

"Stop smiling. I’m not into guys.”

“My dear friend, neither am I.”

“Of course. Now that we’ve sorted that out, kiss me again.”

When their lips met again, James drew a sharp breath through his nose, taking in the sweet, musky scent of his closest friend. He buried his hand in Thomas’s hair, pulling him closer, and Thomas responded with what may have been a sigh. Perhaps it was simply the alcohol and exhaustion clouding his brain, but Thomas was perfectly content to lose himself in James’s soft lips, pressed so firmly but gently against his own.

Again they drew back, this time long enough for Thomas to draw his finger along the edge of James’s jaw. “I think I’m drunk,” he chuckled. “I’ve sunken low enough to do this in good conscience.”

“Shhh,” replied James, placing a finger to Thomas’s lips. “Just… go with it.”

Thomas smirked and pressed his lips into the finger. “Oh, I will.”

He placed his hand on the back of James’s head and their mouths meshed together. They grew more confident in treading these unchartered lands, pressing their mouths hotly against each other’s again and again and again in new, delicious fervor. Thomas’s lips parted, allowing his tongue to trace the rim of James’s bottom lip. James sighed into Thomas’s mouth in surprise, and responded by grazing the tip of his own tongue across Thomas’s. Thomas groaned, a sound caught in the back of his throat, and his body relaxed. The brief friction between their tongues went straight to his head. His legs spread ever so slightly as heat began to build between them. James’s wandering hands found their way to his upper thighs, drawing them further apart. Thomas nearly bit off James’s tongue when his palm pressed against the bulge at the front of his breeches.  He drew back, panting, his mouth angry and red.

“My God,” he breathed. His pupils, only visible in his dark eyes by the strange amber light, were dilated to the size of dinner plates. “This isn’t right. We need to stop. It’s too weird.”

“Agreed.”

Nothing but empty words. Thomas pressed his mouth against James’s with such intensity that the two men went tumbling out of their chairs onto the floor. He propped himself up on his forearms, leaning low over James and planting a series of sloppy, fevered kisses along his cheek and jaw. A low growl rose from his throat. The electricity of James’s touch had sparked a new life in Thomas, who took to greedily running his hands up and down his friend’s body. It may have simply been a way to keep those dastardly hands away from certain parts of his body. There was only so much he could take. James seemed to understand, and, more or less, kept his hands to himself.

“What are we now?” James asked squeezing his eyes shut as Thomas began to suck at his jawline. He let out a small moan of his own, fingers clutching the back of Thomas’s waistcoat.

“Shh shhh! Shut up. I haven’t decided yet, and I can’t make a decision if you keep talking,” Thomas replied, his voice ragged. He locked his mouth back on the edge of James’s jaw with a quiet hum, and continued to suck and nibble and pull at his feverishly warm skin, working some sort of black magic.

“You’ll leave a mark,” James protested. He suddenly craved the feeling of Thomas’s lips on his own with such intensity that it almost physically hurt. “Come here.”

He caught Thomas’s chin with two fingers and pulled his face towards his own. They kissed, sloppy and desperate and delicious, lips sliding against each other in some vain attempt to express the inexpressible. James buried his hands in Thomas’s wild, springy hair, pulling him so strongly closer that a small part of him was worried he might hurt the man. Thomas did not protest, and pressed his chest and hips into James, stealing whatever space that may have still dared to lie between them.

They remained in that manner for a while, lost in deep, needy heavy kisses that rolled into each other like waves on the shore. Perhaps they were simply too dizzy to attempt to switch positions. In the absence of his ability to do more, Thomas focused his rapidly dwindling energy on running his hands all over James’s body, caressing and cupping him and claiming him as his own in the only sort of possessive way he knew how. James was equally as handsy, running his (admittedly larger) hands up and down the length of Thomas’s back, his arms, his face, his thighs, oh God, his thighs. Completely absorbed with _touching_ each other, they vented their frustrations of the day with their bodies in this new experiment. When Thomas had to pull his mouth away to catch his breath, James pressed his lips to the older man’s ear.

“Still don’t know what we are?” he asked, husky voice somehow even huskier, breath hot against the delicate skin of Thomas’s ear. Thomas sighed in delight, rolling his hips into James and placing a sweet kiss on his neck.

"Right,” Thomas gasped, breathing hard against James’s skin. Unable to hold himself up any longer, the product of too much to drink and kissing himself to insanity and exhaustion, he let all of his weight rest on the man beneath him, their cheeks pressed together, their chests rising and falling heavily as one. James took advantage of the chance to roll them over so that he was on top, looking down at this flushed, worn out man whose hair stuck up in all directions.

“You look like shit,” he muttered. Each breath they drew was an act of labor. They had reached a moment of stillness in the eye of the storm, and their weariness was creeping back in.

“If I don’t feel like it too,” Thomas panted. “It’s not easy to be me, you know.”

“I know,” James said softly. They had been talking about this earlier as friends, before the thought of ravishing each other’s body had even entered their minds. “You have a tough job.”

“Make me forget it,” Thomas said, eyes staring up at the ceiling. “Since this is the only time we’ll ever be in this position. I’m beat.”

James cocked an eyebrow, although he was all too pleased to please his- friend. His friend. Thomas had all but admitted it- this was the last time they would ever do this. James was not sure how to feel about the decision. “What do you want me to do?”

“Something. Anything. I don’t have the energy to keep going. Do whatever you want.” Something about the sudden grayness of his friend’s face stirred James’s heart to pity. He truly did not have the strength to continue.

“Maybe we should stop. You’re tired. We’re drunk. We’re just friends.”

“No, that’s why we _shouldn’t_ stop. _Carpe diem_ , James. C’mon. First and last time we’re doing this. Don’t keep me waiting. And don’t make me beg.” The neediness in Thomas’s voice made it all too clear that he craved James’s touch just as much as James craved his.

A sly smile crept onto James’s face. “ _Would_ you beg?”

Thomas glanced at him. He somehow found the energy to be indignant. “Fuck off. Would I _beg_ … It was a figure of speech,” he grumbled. James studied his face with half-lidden eyes, a lascivious smile on his face. Thomas’s lips were swollen and red from kissing, and beads of sweat collected on his forehead. His eyelashes fluttered above flushed cheeks, but, despite his virtual lack of energy, he still desired James, still sought more, more, more of his younger _friend_. He did not have the energy to beg, but he may have been brought to it were he more awake- if, that is, he truly wanted this more than he valued his pride. Sometimes it was hard to judge the lengths Thomas would go to just to feel good. 

“I won’t make you beg,” James promised lowly, capturing his friend’s lips in a light kiss, soothing the worried lines forming at the corners of his mouth. “But I will make you moan.”

“Say wha- _ngg, shit_.” Thomas clenched his teeth as James’s mouth went to work on the side of his neck, kissing and nipping and pressing down hotly with his tongue, lips whispering against his skin in a zealously fulfilled promise. He kicked his legs feebly and gripped wordlessly at James’s arms, grinding his teeth to hold back the tiny pleasured whines James coaxed fervently from him. His legs spread apart and he lay his head back onto the carpeted floor, giving into the sweet, _suffocating_ wonders his friend was working on him. A low, loose moan escaped from his parted lips, and it was the single most erotic sound James had ever heard in his entire life.

Consciously or not, Thomas rolled his hips into James, groaning as their lips met once more. James smiled into the kiss. He was secretly pleased at his friend’s surrender. Thomas had never submitted to anything in his entire life. He really was drunk and desperate.

They were dancing in circles, tiring themselves out while only serving to build their frustration. Kisses found their way into existence farther and farther apart, hands lay loosely gripped to collars rather than wandering all over the other’s body, and their breathing came as slow, labored whines. Finally, _finally_ having had enough, James pulled away, and Thomas did not protest. His eyes were closed, but his lips stayed parted slightly as if still anticipating another kiss. For a moment, he looked almost peaceful and submissive. The notion was absurd.

“I’m hard,” Thomas said simply, as if James could not feel it pressing against his stomach insistently.

“Still off-limits?”

“Wanna find out?”

James licked his lips and slowly reached his hand down to stroke Thomas’s erection through his breeches. The motion was halfhearted. The desire was still there, but the energy to continue wasn’t. They had worn themselves out in all their passion play beforehand. Still, Thomas tensed and bit his lip, but he did not open his eyes.

“’S’okay,” he mumbled. “Go ahead.”

“You’re falling asleep.”

“Drank more. Smaller.”

“We should stop.” James moved to shift his weight off, but Thomas suddenly gripped him tightly by the collar.

“Wait. ‘F you won’t finish me… just… hold me. Please.”

“Thomas…”

“I’m drunk. My wife’s dead. Amuse me.”

The meek desperation in his voice broke James’s heart. He sighed and curled around Thomas, resting his head on his friend’s forearm. He found himself dragging his fingers through the tight coils of his bushy hair, wild and misshapen from their little foray, and the gesture was familiar again, the touch of an old friend soothing a tired, miserable man. Thomas hummed in response, a not-quite smile on his face. A stressed line formed between his furrowed eyebrows. Once again, their breathing fell into the same rhythm, two chests rising and falling in unison, two pulses pumping at the same time. The warmth was comforting.

“You know, if you were a woman, this would actually be kinda nice,” Thomas murmured. He breathed deeply and slowly through his nose, not quite snoring, but close to it.

“Find a woman as big as me,” James challenged. They both chuckled.

“You got me there.”

They rested like that for a while, dozing in and out of consciousness and time, until a clock struck midnight somewhere. Thomas counted the chimes to himself in some other language, but James was too tired to connect the words to meanings. He rubbed his eyes.

“We can’t sleep on the floor,” he tried to say, but his tongue would not obey him. He wasn’t even sure if his mouth had moved at all. He jostled Thomas gently. “Hey. Get up.”

He cracked a bloodshot eye open and regarded James with about as much contempt as a half-sleeping drunk man could muster. He closed it again and nodded, frowning. “ _Casse toi. Je dors._ ”

“Rude. Come on.” He rolled over onto his back, causing Thomas to groan and curl in on himself to make up for lost heat. He pushed himself up to his feet, head swimming. “You can’t sleep on the floor all night.”

“Watch me.” He nuzzled his head into his arm. “Or join me…”

“You don’t want to sleep alone, do you?” James was beginning to understand just how lonely Thomas could get. It was just another layer added onto the pain he always seemed to feel. He really hadn’t been the same after his wife died.

Thomas shook his head, still defiantly attempting to fall back into a restful slumber on the carpet. He began to shiver.

James sighed. “I’ll sleep with you in your bed tonight. Come on, man, get up.”

Finally, Thomas stirred, rolling onto his stomach, pushing himself onto his hands and knees, then slowly but surely, tottering to his feet. He stumbled, and James caught him. After several vain attempts at movement, James finally conceded to wrapping Thomas’s arm around his shoulders and half dragging him down the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom.

In his dreamlike state, Thomas was not aware of much, but he knew that everything hurt, and he was exceedingly drunk, and he was being supported by someone strong and warm. Somehow, they ended up in his bed. In the embrace of his sheets and that strong, warm someone, he easily drifted back into a deep sleep, and for just a short moment, he was content.

James joined him in sleep soon enough, and they spent the short night tangled in each other’s arms, neither one feeling particularly lonely or anxious for perhaps the first time in a long, long time.

* * *

 

When they woke up the next morning fully clothed and cuddling like two lovers in paradise, they cleared their throats and mumbled vows of, “Hey, look, um, I don’t… think of you like…” and rolled to opposite sides of the bed, wracking their brains to remember what the hell had happened the night before that led them to where they were. Despite the immediate disgust, however, they had to smile, each facing away from each other and gripping the sheets to their chests. That small crisis was sorted and averted. Friends. They were only friends after all.

Thomas glanced back over at James, fighting the stale malaise and nausea that came with the morning-after-drinking routine. He made a mental note to thank him for last night’s opportunity whenever he found the words. Or maybe, he didn’t need words to express his thanks. No. He banished those thoughts from his dehydrated mind. They were only good friends, after all.

James repeated those words to himself as he stared at the wall. Thomas had been lonely. There was nothing more to it. They had used each other, and it was fine. There was nothing more. They were only friends, after all. Only friends. Only friends.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'M going to hell, but YOU read this, so I'll see you there, motherfuckers.


End file.
